


I Know the End

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Entity Content, Haunted Houses, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-MAG160, Sentient Safehouse, TMA Big Bang 2020 (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: When the sky goes wrong and the world breaks around him, when the good cows mutate frightening and decidedly bad, when his mind and heart and being recoil from fear, Martin Blackwood thinks, stupidly and somewhat predictably, of T. S. Eliot. Of “The Hollow Men”. Ofthis is the way the world ends.Except, for all that beautiful poetry, Eliot was wrong, because the world doesn’t end with a bang, sure, but it doesn’t end with a whimper, either. It ends with the distant-yet-deafening voice of the man Martin loves shouting through a ragged, wild throat--I open the door.(The world ends, Jon shatters, and Martin tries to fix it. The house tries, too, in its own way.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122
Collections: TMA Big Bang 2020





	I Know the End

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this forever! My obsession with sentient house stories had to culminate in Something, and while this isn't quite what I wanted, I'm proud of it. Written for the TMA Big Bang 2020!
> 
> CW: The fallout from something being interpreted as a suicide attempt, lots of mental anguish

When the sky goes wrong and the world breaks around him, when the good cows mutate frightening and decidedly bad, when his mind and heart and being recoil from fear, Martin Blackwood thinks, stupidly and somewhat predictably, of T. S. Eliot. Of “The Hollow Men”. Of  _ this is the way the world ends _ .

Except, for all that beautiful poetry, Eliot was wrong, because the world doesn’t end with a bang, sure, but it doesn’t end with a whimper, either. It ends with the distant-yet-deafening voice of the man Martin loves shouting through a ragged, wild throat-- _ I open the door _ .

Then silence falls, and darkness, and an eye-- _ the _ Eye--blinks open above him, and Martin doesn’t think of poetry, or his own fear, or anything other than getting to safety, getting to Jon, getting to--he has a feeling those are one and the same, now. His legs shake. He can’t see the ground under him and doesn’t want to look, because it’s gone soft and warm and the sounds it makes--

No. Just thinks about the house. Just thinks about Jon. Just thinks about--the air isn’t really a  _ temperature _ anymore, it’s--it’s--it just  _ is _ . His body is freezing, but the world around him isn’t, it’s scorching, maybe, but--but no--

No. The house. Jon. He doesn’t think about the distant agonized screams. He thinks about putting one foot in front of the other as fast as he can. He thinks about a warm cup of tea. He thinks about resting his head on Jon’s shoulder. He thinks about those things  _ very _ hard, and then, somehow, he’s at the house.

He tries not to think about the fact that he was a mile away last he checked and he hasn’t been walking that long and-- _ gift horses, Martin _ . The door is already open for him, and it swings wider as he numbly stumbles towards it, inviting him in. Welcoming him home.

* * *

Jon’s a wreck. His voice isn’t his own--or it’s the voice he used to use years ago, when he was completely shattering, after the worms burrowed in and ate all his faith in the way the world was supposed to work on their way back out. 

It shakes Martin, how on the edge of--madness isn’t the right word, because  _ everything _ is madness now, and nothing. Nothing is unthinkable. Nothing is madness. It all just--it just  _ is _ . But Jon...he’s not right. He’s not  _ him _ . He’s frightened and frightening and he just laughs, soft and hysterical, at nearly everything.

Martin gets that. He’d like to laugh too, nervous and high-pitched and too loud. It would feel better than holding all this in his chest, all this fear and pain, all this awful energy he has no outlet for. He can’t let it burst out because--because he has to be calm and strong, because he needs to be there for Jon, because Jon needs something sturdy and half-safe in his life. Because Jon is maybe the only thing left in the world that could repair the damage he was forced to do, and Martin  _ needs _ him.

Loves him, too, though Jon doesn’t seem to hear when Martin tells him that, over and over, the hysteria and panic edging into his voice.  _ Jon, Jon, look at me, please, I love you, it’s alright, it’s not your fault--Jon, please. I love you. _ It means nothing. Jon’s completely deaf to it. He just stays where he slid numbly to the ground, pressed into the wall under the window like it’s going to comfort him somehow.

It hurts Martin a little that Jon’s reaching out to inanimate matter for reassurance rather than him, but Martin knows his stupid, always-misplaced jealousy won’t be good for anyone, so he shoves it in that little box deep in his mind, along with all the fear. It’s a lot to hold, but it’s a deceptively roomy box. He used to shove his feelings for Jon in it, and the lid only ever popped a few times.

Besides, the wall seems to press back into Jon. The wood splinters around his splayed fingers, paint chipping and flaking along his shoulders and chest like an embrace. It roots him there, and Martin just sits, watching, like a third wheel.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he tries his old, well-worn anxiety management tactic, and starts making lists. Lists are easy, and they keep things neat, and they take all his attention, and that’s exactly what he needs. He’d write them down, but he realizes his hands are shaking a bit, and it’s fairly dark in the house besides. It’s fine. He doesn’t need to remember these. They’re idle and useless.

He lists Things He Knows Are True About The World Now (the cows have gone bad, nothing will ever be the same again no matter how hard he hopes, it can’t be  _ all _ horrid because Jon’s still here), Things To Tell Jon When He Starts Feeling Remotely Up To Language Again (nothing is totally irreversible and we can figure out how to fix it together, I love you so much, please say  _ something _ because I need to hear another human voice and yours is my favorite), and Things He Could Do To Feel Even A Bit Better (make tea, be held, ???).

He resists the urge to pull back the curtains and look outside again. The view is so burned into his mind that he never needs to see it again, but the temptation’s still there, like if he doesn’t keep refreshing the shock and horror, he’ll stop believing it. He’d like to stop believing it, so he stays put and watches Jon. 

The curtains seem to flatten themselves against the window, sticking to it, like he’d be hard-pressed to wrench them open, and he feels a faintly absurd swell of gratitude.

* * *

The wallpaper in the corner Jon’s been curled up in all day seems more faded than the rest of the room, and Martin can’t remember if it was like that before, or  _ why _ it would be like that. The light doesn’t hit it any more than it does anywhere else--less, actually, because it’s next to a window. 

Not that any light comes in from the window anymore, no light that isn’t blood-tinged and more of an eerie glow than an actual brightness, at least. Martin didn’t ever think about the possibility of missing the sun before, but he really does. He realizes, in its absence, that he always thought of himself as a naturally lit sort of person. 

He’s at least thankful the lights in the house still work, weak and cold as they are. It’s certainly better than nothing. Darkness would break him. Sure, he’d adapt, that’s--it’s what he  _ does _ , he contorts himself emotionally to fit whatever shitty crevices his life jams itself into, and his eyes and spirit would adjust to complete darkness eventually, but it would be a rough period in the meantime.

The silence is starting to get to him, though. He can’t even hear Jon’s breathing anymore. Jon  _ is _ breathing, obviously, thankfully, though Martin throws him panicked double-glances sometimes just to make sure, but either it’s gotten softer, Martin’s brain has started filtering it as background noise, or, possibly, somehow, Jon’s gotten farther away without moving an inch. 

Explanations don’t particularly matter anymore, though. Things are what they are, or, really, aren’t, so there’s no real need to know  _ why _ . Nothing to be done to change it.

He just wants to hear  _ something _ , to feel like his mind isn’t a soundproof cell that he’s silently screaming his lungs out in, and it’s been--well, time is a shattered, useless concept when the light doesn’t change and there’s nothing at all to do. It’s been--Martin’s going to call it two days, because he got really exhausted, hit that odd wave of energy you get when you stay up all night, and then got even more exhausted, and that feels like about two days--since Jon made any kind of noise, and Martin hasn’t spoken either, and it’s--he can’t take it.

“Jon?” he says, and his voice cracks and falls away, disuse rubbing it with sandpaper til it bleeds, rough and unrecognizable. Not the first time. Living at home, with his mum, he’d go a whole week without speaking sometimes. Just not something he wanted to feel again. 

Jon’s head twitches up, slightly, chin lifting off his collarbone. Martin’s almost surprised Jon can even hear him, and relieved he even responded that much.

“Jon, can I--” Martin starts, about to ask something stupid like ‘can I hold you’, but Jon meets his eyes, and the words fall away. Jon’s eyes are--well. There’s not enough light for them to catch any, yet they’re almost luminous, shining and--he quickly blinks away, swallows hard enough that Martin can see his Adam’s apple jump in his throat.

His lips move, and his chest, like--like air and sound  _ should _ be coming out, but there’s absolutely nothing. No cracked, soft voice, just...just void. A spot where words should be. And he shows no sign of alarm, so...so maybe he  _ did _ speak, and something’s just wrong with Martin, he just can’t hear for some reason, or--

Maybe if he gets closer. If Jon’ll let him get closer. He pushes himself out of the chair he’s been completely numbly stuck in, and his legs are weak under him, and his head floods with dizzy static the second he stands, but he steps forward anyway, and by the time his vision clears he’s...no closer to Jon than he was before.

It’s not a large room. He tries again to close the distance, but again, he gets no closer. Jon looks about as alarmed as Martin feels, albeit still somewhat detached. His eyes search the room, and land back on Martin’s face. 

Martin keeps trying, as if that’ll change whatever this is, as if playing Sisyphus ever makes a difference in his life, but still gets no closer. Finally, he sits on the floor, sighing in defeat, arms resting on his knees, trying not to cry out of sheer frustration.

“I love you,” he says, because Jon can hear him, at least. 

A spasm that almost looks like a hint of a smile rattles Jon’s face, but it quickly fades. He looks at the floor, and Martin can read lips well enough to understand ‘I love you too’, which at least makes Martin feel slightly better. 

“I don’t think I can get to you,” Martin says, and Jon shakes his head slowly, hair falling out of a very loose ponytail and covering the side of his face. “Maybe you can--maybe if you try?” Martin’s voice is small, he’s trying not to--to  _ demand _ anything from Jon, but--but, well, it’d be nice if Martin could hold him.

Jon opens and quickly shuts his mouth, and gives a tiny nod. He slowly pushes himself to his feet, bracing the wall for support. Color floods back into the wallpaper as his hand presses into it, and Martin tries not to be extremely put off by that, because there’s not time to be scared of everything right now.

Jon takes the few, uncertain steps it should’ve taken Martin to reach him, and comes crashing back to his knees, centimeters away from Martin. Martin reaches out and tentatively cups his face, just to make sure he actually  _ can _ , and when Jon doesn’t pull away, Martin brushes his hair back and pulls him into his arms.

Jon doesn’t fight it, just sort of stays knelt there, awkwardly, limply leaning into Martin’s embrace, face pressed into his shoulder. 

Martin realizes he’s talking, endless, pointless reassurances, like he’s speaking to a scared housecat. Things like ‘it’s okay, I’ve got you, it’s going to be okay’. He stops the second he’s aware he’s doing it and reflexively apologizes. 

Jon just shakes his head. It’s a tiny action, but Martin feels it against his chest. It could mean ‘I don’t accept your apology, actually, Martin’, but Martin chooses to interpret it as ‘don’t be sorry’, because that’s the option that makes him feel better, and he’d  _ really _ like to feel better.

“Can we just stay here a moment?” Martin asks, and Jon just sort of curls into him in response, which seems like a yes, so Martin holds him tighter and closes his eyes, trying to still find pleasure just in the simple fact that Jon even wants to be held by him, but that initial rush of overwhelmed overjoyed disbelief he felt their first few weeks here disappeared with the sun, and everything else.

Jon reaches a hand up and winds it through Martin’s hair, his fingers a comforting, inert pressure against Martin’s skull.

They stay there far longer than a moment.

* * *

Martin manages to drag Jon into bed with him, figuring it’s at least more comfortable than being lethargic with grief on the rough wood floor. They lie there on their sides, staring at each other.  _ At  _ is a strong word, really, Jon seems like he’s staring straight through Martin.

He’s reminded of their first night sharing a bed in this house, Jon not sleeping and Martin afraid to, like if he closed his eyes, this would all disappear. He couldn’t believe Jon was so comfortable being close to him, but there he was, and Martin was terrified to move, to breathe too heavily, to do anything that might encourage Jon to change his mind. 

Now, Martin’s so exhausted his eyes burn and his mind twists reality everywhere but his direct focal point, which is, as always, Jon. He needs to sleep, but he’s frightened of the nightmares he’s sure are lying in wait for him, frightened that when he wakes up Jon will be gone, physically or otherwise. Martin’s been making  _ some _ progress, maybe, in pulling Jon out from deep in the hell that is his head, and he doesn’t want it all erased because he was too tired and human to stay with the man he loves. 

He can’t help it, though. Dark, deep sleep creeps over him slowly, like a rolling blackout. The last thing he remembers before he hurtles into the abyss is Jon’s eyes, still void and luminous and hungry and satiated all at once, like he’s at once causing and consuming Martin’s fear.

Martin dreams of eyes. First darkness, everywhere around him, thick, warm, living darkness, pressing into him, suffocating him, insistently, and then, the second he pushes back, the darkness opens, erupts, and--eyes. Jon’s eyes. Everywhere. Shining and starving.

He’s aware, dimly, somewhere in his fraught subconscious, that this should terrify him. He should be trying to recoil, trying to run, but--he’s calm. Completely, entirely calm. He’s being watched, and known, and loved, despite everything.

The eyes shut, the darkness presses back in, and he falls, and it’s endless, and on, and on, and on, and--

* * *

Jon’s not there when Martin wakes up, and he’s not surprised. It pangs in his chest, a dull ache, a void. Why would he stay with Martin, after all, Martin might actually make him  _ feel _ better (somehow, eventually), and Jon seems hellbent on never feeling better, apparently.

Martin loves him, isn’t angry with him, but annoyance is flaring, as well as some kind of creeping--well, he’s not sure what that feeling is, so he’s going to ignore it. He hasn’t showered in days, and he’d like to feel close to awake again, so he hauls himself out of bed and into the bathroom, strips, and turns the shower on.

When he pokes a finger in to check the temperature, it seems perfect, so he steps in, and suddenly his body  _ shrieks _ with pain, every nerve on fire, acidic, melting, like his skin is going to boil off, and it’s so much he can’t even scream, just gasp, desperately. It brings him to his knees, hugging himself, trying to protect himself somehow.

He shudders with blind, cold, searing pain on the floor of the shower, trying--trying to force himself to stand through it, to make the water cooler, but he’s flooded with pain and--and  _ anger _ . He’s fucking  _ angry _ at Jon, because he’s  _ so _ in love with him, and that would be enough to bring Martin back from anything, he’s  _ sure _ , but it’s not enough for Jon. Nothing’s enough for Jon. He’d rather drown himself in misery and be comforted by a fucking-- _ haunted house _ than Martin. Maybe he thinks it’s all he deserves, but--but this was just a mistake, right? No one deserves to suffer as much as he’s making himself suffer for a  _ mistake _ , even if it did cause the end of the world.

... _ was _ it a mistake? Martin realizes, suddenly, a moment of clarity in the pain, that Jon never actually--he never said  _ why _ it happened. Martin had assumed, obviously, that this was an accident, a manipulation, because why would Jon ever  _ want _ to end the world? But he clearly hates himself so completely and thoroughly, and--no, Jon wouldn’t do that, that’s a horrible thought, no matter how angry Martin might be in this moment.

He forces himself to reach up and twist the temperature knob violently the other direction. The melting pain fades, and he breathes heavily, tentatively feeling his back for damage, but the skin seems intact.

The bathroom is full of steam, an uncanny amount, actually, so thick he can’t see the opposite wall, and as even as the water goes cold, it doesn’t fade. Martin thinks it might be thickening, actually, and the cold sinks into his bones, eerily, dangerously familiar.

He’s  _ not _ alone, he’s not, he’s--his thoughts turn into some kind of five year old’s tantrum, stamping their feet and whining that it’s not fair for him to still feel like this, not now that he has Jon, but Jon’s just as silent as the fucking fog. No comfort or relief from the loneliness that trails behind him like the undead corpse of some loyal, tireless childhood dog, never letting him be.

The question still echoes in his mind, albeit colder and farther away: did Jon end the world on purpose? Has he tied himself to the man that killed existence as they knew it? 

He doesn’t want to let the doubt in, but he’s so fucking numb, shivering and detached, cold water beating down. He turns the water off and presses his forehead into the wet tile of the shower wall, hugging his bare shoulders and shuddering with silent tears.

* * *

Martin self-soothes because there’s no one else there to do it. That’s how it’s always been. He gently coaxes himself into putting clothing on, runs fingers over his own scalp, tells himself  _ it’s okay, Martin, you can do this _ , and feels pathetic for needing so much convincing. He winds up just in boxers and a t-shirt, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed.

He should go make sure Jon’s alright, but he’s got a sinking feeling, a freefall in the pit of his stomach. Jon’s not alright, and neither is Martin, and--and it’s  _ selfish _ for Martin to need time to himself, isn’t it, but...but he does. Just a bit. Just until he can stop the unpredictable, intense crying jags and seem convincingly comforting again. 

He sits there, tries to take deep breaths that end up coming out shallow and quick and shaky, and closes his eyes. There’s a strange tickling sensation under his bare feet, and he opens his eyes again to see the wood beneath him shifting, floorboards creaking and jerking like something’s pushing against them. He pushes down on one experimentally, and it pushes back violently. He stifles a yelp and launches himself up onto the bed just in time for bugs to come exploding up out of the floorboards, masses of them, winged and many-legged and disgustingly large. 

He presses his hand over his mouth, trying to breathe, trying not to be sick or  _ scream _ . They fill the room, a dark cloud, swarming around him. He wants to just ask  _ why _ out loud, wants to shout at somebody or something for doing this to him, but he’s afraid something would fly in his mouth if he opened it, so he just sits there in a ball and squeezes his eyes shut tight. They--they  _ sing _ , or maybe it’s the vibration of their wings, and it’s almost--he almost wants to tear himself open to let them in so he can belong to  _ something _ , so he won’t be alone--until, eventually, miraculously, they all filter out the cracked-open window.

(Martin...doesn’t think he left the window open, and doubts Jon would’ve opened it, so--so that’s--right. Gift horses.)

“I’m not leaving,” Martin says, and his voice comes out like a little kid’s whine, pitchy and petulant. He clears his throat. “I’m serious. I’m not leaving him. You can’t have me.”

He doesn’t know what he’s talking to or who he’s trying to convince, but the house creaks sympathetically. It’s probably a bad sign for his mental health that he thinks a house creaking can sound any particular way, but, well, bigger fish to fry on that front.

He makes himself get up and walk out of the bedroom. He feels like he’s in a dream, like his legs are dead asleep--everything’s numb and slow and hazy, and he has to consciously remind himself where he is by the time he reaches the small living room. Jon isn’t there, but the couch looks sort of reassuring, so he sits down and then curls onto his side, head on the armrest, staring at the wall opposite him.

There’s music on. Martin didn’t notice it, coming in, but, well. He’s so lost in his own head, that’s no indication of anything. It must be playing on something nigh ancient, though, or maybe it’s a damaged record, because it’s scratchy and distorted, and speeds up and slows down at unpredictable intervals. It feels like--Martin thinks he might know the song, old as it sounds, but he can’t place it. It--it’s almost like waking up and trying to remember a song his mind fabricated in a dream, and it consumes him entirely. 

He needs to figure out where he knows it from, it’s haunting and oddly beautiful, but the more he tries to focus the worse the quality of the recording gets, until it’s just painful static. He listens harder. He’s  _ sure _ he can still hear the melody buried deep in there, and he nearly had it, he  _ nearly _ figured out where he knew it from, just--just a few more bars and he knows he’ll get it--

\--the inside of his head feels like it’s heated to melting, prickling with deep, intense pain, and his thoughts are completely scrambled, he can’t remember his own name, but what does that matter in the moment, he’s  _ so _ close--

\--a door slams and Martin screams in surprise, jolting up. He breathes heavily, trying to calm down so he can focus on the music again, but--silence. No static, no faded music, just the creaking of old wood.

He can’t be alone. He has to find Jon. Jon, at least, should be safety, protection from--from whatever’s trying so viciously to get him. Even if he ended the world, he can keep the hell he unleashed from ending Martin as well.

The house is silent and still. Martin calls Jon’s name, not expecting a response, but hoping for one anyway. A clock ticks in another room, strangely loud, and it brings back memories of the house he grew up in, an empty, quiet place, with empty, quiet minutes endlessly passing, marked only by the incessant ticking.

It unsettles him more than it should, and he forces himself up. He trails a hand over the wall instinctively as he leaves the room, and the wood almost seems to lean into his touch, until his palm is flat against it, somehow.

He blinks it off and walks into the kitchen. Jon isn’t there, so he checks the entrance, the spare bedroom--fear starts clinging to him like a damp jacket. He shouts for Jon, and the house swallows the sound and hands him nothing in return. 

The door to the tiny bathroom in the hall is locked when Martin tries it, and a strange mix of panic and relief fills him. He bangs on it with an open palm. “Jon?” he calls, pressing his ear against the door. Nothing. “Are you okay?  _ Jon _ .”

There’s no response, just a gaping, endless void of silence that says absolutely nothing good, and he can’t swallow the panic any longer.

“ _ Jon! _ ” he shouts, rattling the doorknob, banging uselessly against the door. “Jon, let me in, I--please-- _ please _ \--” 

He realizes he’s not really pleading with Jon, he’s begging the door itself to let him in, and--the lock shifts under his hand and he shoves his way into the room. His brain, uncharacteristically, protects him for a moment by refusing to process what it sees.

Jon’s sitting on the floor, pressed up against the cabinet under the sink, idly biting the nails on his blood-drenched right hand, staring into nothing. Blood runs down his arms, his face--it soaks his clothing, it’s in his hair, it’s--whatever he did, whatever he  _ tried _ to do, it looks like he didn’t give up the first time, and Martin can’t breathe or move or speak.

It’s not as if he couldn’t see this coming. He  _ knows _ suicidal. He’s been there. And--and Jon’s always been on the edge of doing something monumentally stupid, he was just always a step removed from doing it himself. 

Martin remembers to breathe. To swallow. He doesn’t have thoughts, really. He--’kneels’ is generous. He falls to his knees next to Jon, skin immediately getting sticky with blood, and reaches up to turn Jon’s face towards him.

“You  _ idiot _ ,” Martin breathes. “You--you  _ selfish _ \--” It’s not what he wants to be saying, but it slips out of him before he can stop himself. He bites it down hard as soon as he can and hates himself violently for it, but there’s not time for that right now. He’s shuddering with tears, barely manages to choke out “I  _ love _ you.”

Jon’s forehead furrows in confusion, his eyes a mystified question, for once. He searches Martin’s face, and then seems to look a little deeper than that, and he breathes an “Oh.”

“ _ What _ ?” Martin manages, confused by Jon’s reaction.

“I--I didn’t do anything,” Jon says, in a rusted, creaking voice. He clears his throat, which only seems to make it worse. “This--uh, this just--happened to me. I...I tried to turn the shower on, and--”

“Fully clothed?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “My mind isn’t the brightest place, Martin, but I  _ promise _ \--I wouldn’t do--do  _ that _ to you. I--it--it’s not like it would do anything anyway.”

“So the house drenched you in blood?” Martin asks, sniffing hard, trying to get a handle on himself.

“Not the house,” Jon says, absently and somewhat affectionately trailing a hand over the tile beneath him. 

“Would you like to elaborate?” Martin asks, tightly, all of the love and fear finally congealing into frustration in his chest.

“The End, I think. This--this was just a means to scare you,” Jon says. “It-- _ They _ \--want you to leave. They don’t want us together.”

“Well, good try, but I don’t give up that easy,” Martin says to the air next to him, theoretically addressing whatever’s doing this to him. 

Jon reaches out and trails a bloody hand over Martin’s cheek. It feels disgusting, and Martin tries not to shudder. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Martin asks, turning his face away and shrugging defensively, shoulders high. “You were just trying to take a shower.”

“For--for leaving you the way I’ve left you,” Jon says. “Alone in this-- _ this _ .” 

“It’s fine,” Martin says, with an audible strain to his voice that he wishes he could will away. “You needed time and space, and--well, of course you did, you--I mean, uh--the world ended.”

“You can say I ended the world, Martin,” Jon says, sounding dead tired. “I’m never going to be upset with you for telling the truth.”

“Did you do it on purpose?”

The question hangs dark and heavy between them, and Martin immediately feels guilty for asking. It seems to physically strike Jon. He takes a sharp breath, processing it, bites his lip, and stares at nothing again. “No,” he says, finally. “I--no.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t--”

“No, it’s--I’d want to know, if I were you,” Jon says, shaking his head. “It’s alright.”

Martin takes a long, deep breath, then attempts to compartmentalize all the fear and pain so he can keep himself moving. “Right. Uh. We should--let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

Jon can’t make himself stand, so Martin carries him into the other bathroom with the hopefully not-possessed shower, blood sticking Martin’s shirt to his chest. 

Martin kneels in the shower with him, because he still won’t stand. He helps Jon take his soaked-through clothing off, he washes Jon’s hair with strong, unrelenting hands, working all the blood-matted bits out, he gently scrubs all the dried mess off Jon’s skin, fingers trailing and lingering over his scars. 

When he’s finished, Jon strokes a wet hand over Martin’s face. “I love you too,” Jon says, softly, with his trademark lateness to any emotion. “Do you really think I’d end a world with you in it?”

The question winds Martin a bit, makes him internally curse himself for wondering something so mean and untrue. “No. No, I--I’m sorry I asked, it’s…”

“Don’t be. It was a fair question. I...I honestly don’t know what I’m capable of, anymore. I’m not...I’m not  _ me _ . Not like I used to be.” Jon hugs himself, refusing to make eye contact.

“Yes, you are,” Martin says. “I--look, I don’t know what it’s like in your head, Jon, I’m sure it’s... _ bad _ .”

“That would be an understatement.”

“But you’re still--I still recognize you, yeah?” Martin says, softly, turning the water off and pushing a wet clump of hair behind Jon’s ear. “You’re the same person I fell in love with years ago.”

“I think that says a great deal more about you than it does me,” Jon says, with an exhale that could be a laugh if Martin really wanted to believe it was.

“Was that a vaguely mean joke?” Martin asks, half-smiling.

“Possibly.”

“See? Same you,” Martin says, and Jon manages a weak smile, then clears his throat faintly.

“I appreciate your help, but I...I feel a bit...exposed,” he says, softly, and Martin opens and closes his mouth, nodding.

“Right. Yes. I’m sorry, I--” he starts.

“No reason to be,” Jon says. “Would--would it be alright if I wore one of your jumpers, I--”

“It’ll be huge on you,” Martin says, as if his heart isn’t melting despite himself at the question.

“I know,” Jon says. “I don’t mind. I just--I want--” He trails off. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, softly. “Of course it’s alright.”

“Thank you,” Jon says.

* * *

Jon drowns in Martin’s favorite jumper, thick and cableknit and old, the most comforting thing he owns. Martin’s glad to see his favorite person in his favorite thing, it’s--reassuring, somehow. Feels like maybe everything isn’t all bad.

Everything  _ isn’t  _ all bad. They’re both alive, and they’re protected by warm, loving walls. Once Martin finally stops to just breathe it all in, it’s—well, it even feels  _ safe _ , almost. The air settles like a weighted blanket in his lungs. 

There’s always that thick, heavy darkness in the corners of rooms, sure; the way every mirror starts seeming to reflect an incalculably massive, empty space behind him; the distant smells of mold and burning in turns, but--but it all fades. It blurs. Everything starts to blur, a bit, and Martin starts to feel sort of--sort of  _ content _ . Like he did before the world ended, just him and Jon and the house.

It’s enough to forget what’s outside. Time passes, and memories fade. There was something before Scotland, but it doesn’t matter all that much now, does it? They’re here. Martin’s here  _ with Jon _ . That’s still pretty unbelievable.

They don’t  _ do _ a whole lot. Sit and talk, sure, but Jon’s all distant and weird and dark. Martin doesn’t know how to pull him out of his head. He tries to put the tiny old TV on once, but the static pulls him to his knees on the ground, closer and closer, trying to make out the shapes buried in it, reaching out to try and trace them--as his fingers brush the screen, the power shuts off, and the house creaks, and Martin breathes again. 

The house makes such strange sounds. Sighs, soft whispers, gentle groans. Jon takes to idly caressing walls, and Martin follows suit. Takes it further. Presses his forehead against them, sometimes, palms flat, and just breathes. It--it feels--it feels like mornings at his grandparents’ house, a long, long time ago, musty and vaguely perfumed and safe and the closest to loved he can ever remember feeling in his childhood.

He doesn’t think he dreams anymore. He knows he closes his eyes wrapped around Jon, knows he opens them hours later to an empty bed, but it feels like he’s just blinking. It’s strange and disorienting, and when he blearily gets himself up, the floor’s oddly warm under his feet, strangely soft, and instead of disgust he feels reassurance. Like the house itself is embracing him.

He goes to make himself tea. Brings Jon a cup and tries not to pay attention to the way Jon manages to look both harrowed and somehow  _ vibrant _ , like there’s an aura around him, leaving staticky trails in Martin’s vision.

It isn’t tea. Martin should’ve noticed, but--but it was in the cupboard, and--and the house wanted him to be content, so it helped him believe. He knows that, somehow, implicitly. 

He should get more tea. It’s a basic necessity. A comfort. It’s not a long walk to the village, and he can be back before Jon even notices, and--the door handle sears his hand, a deep, painful burn, and he shouts involuntarily, reflexively pressing the hand into his stomach to protect it.

Jon comes running, the soft, tired questions and gentle-yet-firm concern blurring as Martin remembers that the world’s over. He’d forgotten. How--

Jon pulls his hand away from his stomach and flattens it, examining it, tracing his cold, thin, rough fingers over it, and there’s no pain, no burn. Martin’s not surprised by anything anymore.

“It’s the house, isn’t it,” Martin says, and Jon looks up and squeezes his hand.

“I think so.”

“What  _ is  _ it?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, with a trace of a smile. Martin recognizes it--Jon likes to not know things. Means there’s still something new left to learn. It’s fiercely endearing. “A friend, I think.”

“Awfully possessive,” Martin says. He can’t quite tell if it’s a joke or not, but Jon breathes out a half-laugh anyway.

“And you’re one to talk.”

“Hey.” Martin weakly, playfully sort of shoves Jon’s shoulder. He barely makes contact, not wanting to startle Jon or break any boundaries, but Jon flinches hard anyway. 

“Sorry,” he says, eyes flicking up to and away from Martin’s face. “I, uh--”

“No, don’t, that’s--that’s my bad, I’m sorry,” Martin says. Jon runs a hand over the top of his head.

“Martin, I--”

“You know I wouldn’t leave you, right?” Martin asks, before he can stop himself, because it’s still on his mind, the idea that--that anything could chase him away after he came this far, and the idea that anything would have to force him to stay. 

“Yes,” Jon says, softly, with the closest thing to a real smile Martin’s seen in what’s becoming as long as he can remember. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” Martin says, trying to smile back. “Because I wouldn’t. For anything.”

“And if the world doesn’t want us together? What’s the, uh--’do I dare disturb the universe’?” Jon asks, looking both crushed by his own words and a little proud of the Eliot quote.

“I love you,” Martin says. “Fuck the universe, and T. S. Eliot was a coward.”

Jon laughs breathlessly at that, with a full smile that actually shows his teeth. He shakes his head, luminous, icepick eyes warm with affection. “He was certainly wrong about how the world ends. What was the line?  _ There are no eyes here _ ? Talented as he may have been, he obviously wasn’t prophetic.”

“Where’s all the poetry coming from?” Martin asked, charmed, despite everything.

“You like it. I’ve been--researching,” Jon says, waving a hand generally towards his head. “It’s...it’s better than thinking about everything going on out there, and it reminds me of you, and--and I much prefer thinking about you to thinking about...well, just about anything else.”

“Is it--would it be alright if I--” Martin starts, and Jon senses the end of the question and kisses him, briefly. Martin leans down as Jon pulls away, keeping their lips as close as he can.

“I wish you didn’t have to be here with me, but I’m glad you are,” Jon says, softly, taking Martin’s hand again. Martin squeezes.

“There’s worse places to be.”

The house hums in agreement, a soft whirring of pipes and electricity and love.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, all feedback is appreciated <3  
> Find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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